In the Midwest, soybeans are having the kind of quarter CFOs only dream about: record production matched by record rejection. Overnight, China slid the Do Not Disturb sign over the import door, and the beans are left on read. Farmers, dignified as ever, responded by sighing in a tone only tractors can hear.

On paper, it’s a supply glut. In the fields, it’s a custody battle where both parents forgot to pick up the kids. The soybeans—polite, oval introverts—are piling so high that local weather maps now include a chance of legumes.

The silos groan like yoga mats at their first class. One co-op calculated it could fill the town pool, the water tower, and three municipal egos with beans and still have leftovers for a parade float.

Economists call it market dislocation; farmers call it Tuesday. Every earnings call features the sacred words “temporary headwinds,” as if the wind will apologize and buy a hoodie. Adjusted metrics now include “EBITDA ex-China, ex-reality, including vibes.”

Desperation is the mother of innovation, and also the stepmom of inventory management. One farmer confessed he googled industrial silo dehumidifier while praying to the Crop Insurance Deity, a minor god who accepts sacrifices in the form of paperwork and black coffee.

China, for its part, is busy building a strategic tofu reserve the size of a small moon and swiping left on U.S. beans like a picky eater at a salad bar. Officials insist the policy is not political, merely a long-term plan to humble the American casserole.

Lobbyists floated solutions ranging from “more subsidies” to “even more subsidies, but with a flag on it.” A consultant recommended value-add packaging—everything looks premium once it’s shrink-wrapped by a bulk legume vacuum sealer, including the feeling that this is fine.

The futures market tried to help by inventing new words like super-contango, which, as far as anyone can tell, is just contango wearing a cape. Hedge funds placed bets against physics, and physics doubled down.

Rural America is experimenting with alternative uses: soybean zen gardens, beanbag municipalities, and avant-garde installations titled “Supply Meets Demand, Demand Sends a Breakup Text.” A local brewery launched a soy-lager; patrons described it as “boldly bean-forward and emotionally unavailable.”

Politicians descended for photo-ops, rolled up sleeves, and confidently pointed at wheat. They promised to “open new markets,” a phrase that here means “call Canada, then leave a voicemail explaining the vibe.”

As inventories rise, balance sheets develop the haunted look usually reserved for theme park mirrors. Cash flow is cosplay; revenue is an aspiration; the only thing compounding is the smell of optimism in a humid bin.

The beans remain stoic, humming softly as they ferment into a new asset class: Ambient Regret. If a miracle arrives quarter after quarter, it’s probably just soybeans piling up behind the door, knocking politely, asking if you have a minute to discuss their adjusted yield.